• I never see your face in my dreams, not without hers. The happiest of them, I would say are the ones where I don't see your face at all, and your words reach me from a little red box in the palm of my hand. So sweet I could choke. When I wake up I feel...I feel...used but, I smile at my own expense.

    Why is it...you said without question that you loved me, that I drove you insane. You said I was all you ever thought about and that try as you might you couldn't stop feeling the way you did. I could have cried tears of reverie and you told me you did. Being apart killed you, imagine what it did to me. I could not live for myself, because I could not love myself, but you said you loved me, and I loved the person I was when I was with you. I felt captivating, I felt beautiful, a rarity amongst women everywhere.

    I could have flown and you said you'd give me wings. Kidnap me. Rescue me. Escape. We'd escape. To the places I only visit in my dreams, or maybe in my nightmares, but it wouldn't matter because I'd be with you. I believed I could find my wings, with you, just where you said they'd be.

    You kept me here, I'm such a fool to stay by your side, have you play me like a violin and listen to the beautiful nonsense that follows. The love you've thrown away is hiding under your bed, from your perfect little world and your perfect little girl. Maybe I should have been more delicate, more sensitive, more obedient, more simple. If I knew how to bark, roll over, sit, speak, down on all fours, on command, all for you I'd do it. I don't know how to surrender myself. I'm cryptic and complicated, rough around the edges, tough as nails, yet there's tears spilling from my eyes at this very moment...why is that?

    All of a sudden I am too much for you. Too much to handle, too much to tame, too much to muffle, too much to claim. It would never work between us. That's what you say, but that's not what you said. As jolt by terrifying jolt consumed my body I knew that I wanted you. We were riding a wave of emotion that we could no longer control, making you feel vulnerable, and me high as the sky. Suddenly, so very suddenly, you said you didn't want this, that it was too soon. You asked me to wait. Wait? For what? For you to get it together? Forget about her? Slip a leash over my neck? For you to love me? What am I waiting for?

    I waited, and I waited, and I waited, for the day to come. Then it came and you told me it was her it had always been her, it could never be me. Why? Why on earth? It's like abandoning a German shepherd for a poodle. If you wanted a flower, I could have been a flower. She's fold-able, like origami, a blank mind that you could paint whatever color you please. She's immature and delicate, yet loud and boisterous. The drop of a tear, the stomp of her pretty little foot, the suck of her pretty little teeth and the roll of her pretty little eyes, and she has her way... she has her way with you. I'm nothing like her. Nothing like that. I understand you more than she does and listen to you better than she does. We hold more meaningful conversations, enjoy more of the same things. Even if I'm not a poodle, even if you and I are both panting, sweaty German shepherds, rough around the edges, tough as nails, I still love you. I still love you infinitely more than she ever will.

    Control. I cannot fathom what that word even means. That is why 'it would never work between us.' So you can just turn around, march right back to your splendid little life and your splendid little wife. Where does that leave me? Anyone? Oh! Yes you dear, the only hand in this audience of one...

    "Alone."

    When I see her I will smile, and I will laugh, and we will joke because we're friends, that's what friends do. It's forced. I know she knows, she knows I know. We're throwing our elbow grease into this act for you. You, who would never want to be the cause of the wilting blossom, that is our oh-so-special friendship.

    Nevertheless, as soon as she's gone I'm sending my love to you, wrapped carefully in a tiny pixelated envelope marked 'message sent.' Waiting in bushes for her to leave. She saunters right by me, but she knows I'm there. What good would it do for her to acknowledge me? After all she's the one with a key, and I'm the one hiding in your shrubbery. I stay put, just for appearances. She knows I'm waiting for her to go, walking up those steps, ringing your doorbell, melting at the sight of your smile, drinking in your splendor, piercing eyes, warm laughter, soft lips. What am I doing here? I suppose the real question here is who I'm doing here, hm? Some would applaud my pursuit, my will to fight with gusto. Others would deem it pathetic. The latter should ring clear, now that I've drawn out a bit of a map as to how I got here. This is my place, second place, the only place I belong. I am, after all, The Mistress.